


a rain of blood

by literaryFRIVOLOUSneophyte



Category: Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Biting, Blood Kink, Blow Jobs, Independent New Vegas (Fallout), Kneeling, Knifeplay, M/M, briefly, not briefly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-29
Updated: 2018-10-29
Packaged: 2019-08-09 17:53:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16454618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/literaryFRIVOLOUSneophyte/pseuds/literaryFRIVOLOUSneophyte
Summary: They traced the path of the stars for the courier, and he was the one, in the end, to come to them, wandering out of the darkness and taking a seat as though he belonged there.This was a commission! Hit me up @ surrealjock on tumblr.





	a rain of blood

Smoke rises in a narrow path like the broken shaft of an arrow stuck in the earth. The courier, clad in black leather and dust-scuffed boots, sits across from Vulpes and pokes the embers with a juniper branch. He’s taken off his rawhide cowboy hat and sunglasses; his bare face is almost obscene. Young, handsome, little to no marks - knowing what he’s done, the lack of scars is unsettling. His mustache sits black and thick like a leech on his upper lip, and his jawline is insultingly smooth. Somehow, while being pursued, he found the time to shave.

Vulpes and ten legionnaires under his command tracked the courier for months. Through sandstorms, when the visibility was so low they couldn’t see their own feet. They followed crumbling roads standing on concrete legs like beasts of the previous world, and even the men besides Vulpes seemed to stagger, beards white with dust, out from a pulque-dream. Their first casualty brought him shame, as the man twisted his ankle and couldn’t outrun a few damn radscorpions. Through humid nights, when thunder reverberated in the mountains around them like distant gods turning heavily in their sleep. Lightning split the sky into halves and those halves into halves for the giants to eat until it was empty with darkness, and they slaughtered a pack of coyotes and took shelter in their den, a cave untouched by sunlight with the smell of wet dog thicker than the century-old fungi growing on the walls. Two men died because of the coyotes: one from an infection caused by a deep bite, and one from a parasite he got from the meat. Through countless days, when the sand gleamed in the heat like spearheads made of bone and the sun poured hot oil on their necks until their tunics stuck to their backs like second skins. The desert echoed with creatures in their own little war games, the hunter becoming the hunted and both claimed by vultures. Through raider attacks, when brief interludes of violence left blood and limbs still twitching under the sun. A Viper took one of his men screaming into the night. She put her knife to his throat while he slept - a twitch of her wrist, a gurgled squeal - and he was gone.

Six legionnaires remained. Earlier this night, they pitched their tents and made fire gecko stew with pinto beans. His men laughed and drank brahmin milk, clumpy and half-curdled, to ease the spicy flavor. Vulpes ate very little and sat apart from them. As the tents slowly filled with soft breathing and irregular snoring, he didn’t move. He waited. They traced the path of the stars for the courier, and he was the one, in the end, to come to them, wandering out of the darkness and taking a seat as though he belonged there.

Now the fire has dimmed and their shadows have grown long. Nightstalkers rattle their tails and howl in the distance between them and the lights of Vegas.

“Nobody ever asks my name,” the courier starts. “I had a fellow who only called me _courier six._ He never said my name, though he damn well knew it. Well, he's not saying much of anything these days.” He tamps the earth with the heel of his boot for emphasis. “You can call me Frank, thank you very much. I'm getting tired of just being a courier.”

Vulpes says, “Frank.”

“Ah, it feels so good to hear it!”

_“Frank.”_

“Yes?”

“You do realize I have been sent to kill you.”

“Obviously.” As dry as the air over the salt flats, he laughs. “I thought about killing you, at Nipton -”

“You were outnumbered.”

“I’m always outnumbered.”

“Are you loyal to the NCR?”

“Baby, I’m only loyal to whichever way the wind blows. And it happened to bring me to you.”

“Then you have no purpose. My men died for no purpose.”

“I was going to kill you,” Frank continues, as if Vulpes hadn’t interrupted, “but I didn’t. Because I had never been so aroused in my life. Just think about it! Think of all the lives I would have saved if I had killed you at Nipton! The Mojave would be so dull without you.” He takes out a silver cigarette case with a White Glove Society monogram. He lights one while looking at Vulpes with dark, narrowed eyes. “You have nice cheekbones.”

“Is the Legion entertainment for you?”

“Don’t take it so personally.” He breathes out and Vulpes fans the air, coughing. The smoke hangs between them like a curtain, before the wind sweeps it aside. “I went to Zion. Is that why Caesar sent you - other than, you know, all his men I’ve killed? Is the old man paranoid that I’m in cahoots with the Burned Man? Zion was nice. There was a waterfall. I didn’t believe in waterfalls until I saw one. It was strange - seeing so much water at once. I climbed to the top and watched it for hours. The water.... the water was like hair, like white hair. Falling into this pool below. The water was so clear. It was just sunlight, a pool of sunlight, down below.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“A child living under a bridge once told me that _a rain of blood will flood the desert and not purify it._ I dream of it. A rain of blood. Wouldn't that be something? I thought about what it would be like to fall into the water. Or if I killed someone up there - how would they fall, how would their blood look in that clear, beautiful water? I killed a bear that was on fire.”

“You blabber on like a mad dog.”

Frank takes another drag of his cigarette. “This mad dog killed Joshua Graham. You’re welcome.”

“Many have claimed to kill the Burned Man. None have succeeded.”

“Trust me, I checked his pulse. I held it in my hands, to be sure.”

“Why are you here, profligate?”

“Why are you awake? Why aren’t you with your men right now? I know how you like to _be with_ your men.”

Vulpes stands up abruptly. “You’re scum. You should be burned alive.”

He motions to whistle. Frank drops his half-smoked cigarette in the dirt, and he’s on Vulpes immediately, grabbing his wrist hard enough to feel the bones underneath. 

“There's no need to -”

With his other hand, Vulpes takes the knife hidden under his tunic and brings it to Frank’s throat. They stand there, chests heaving, glaring at each other. The fire has died out. Frank smiles.

“Get your hand off me,” Vulpes says.

“If you would only sit down and -”

Before he can blink, a line of blood appears on Frank’s cheek. He opens his mouth and Vulpes strikes a second time, but he lurches backward. The knife hisses through the air, inches from his face. He releases Vulpes and backs away, hands raised in submission. Vulpes follows him with his knife.

“That’s how you got your name then, huh?” Frank’s smile turns into a sneer. “So clever and so quick.”

“Did you truly kill him?” Vulpes says. “The Burned Man? Did you?”

“I have proof! A souvenir, if you will. I have it in my pocket. Don’t stab me.”

In the darkness, Vulpes has to squint as Frank takes out a shape and bends to lay it on the ground. Frank straightens up and raises his arms again, grinning when Vulpes reaches for it. Vulpes recognizes the cold weight of it as soon as he touches it, and he feels, under his fingertips, the strange letters etched into the surface.

“Is this -?”

“You know it, baby.” Frank winks. “That’s Joshua Graham’s final sermon right there. Still got some dried blood on the muzzle from when I pistol-whipped him. Show it to your master. Take the credit for it. I don’t mind.”

Frank’s cigarette sizzles underfoot when Vulpes closes the gap between them. They come together and kiss like animals, swallowing the bitterness of each other’s mouths. All the unlucky gamblers who lost to Frank the moment they let him know how invested they were in the game dig their teeth into Vulpes’ bottom lip, and Frank can feel the tongue of the first boy Vulpes ever kissed, before it was cut out and fed to the dogs, swiping cold and wet against the roof of his mouth.

He runs his hands up Vulpes’ back and through his hair. He tightens his grip, suddenly yanking Vulpes’ head sideways as if he intends to tear it off.

“Somehow I knew you were coming. I knew it,” Vulpes says, panting.

He can only see the whites of Frank’s eyes against his pitch-black pupils. “Of course you knew. Whichever way the wind blows.”

Frank lowers to Vulpes’ throat, and he takes a deep breath, tasting his pulse. Vulpes puts his hands on Frank’s shoulders. He doesn’t push him off, not even when Frank parts his lips and bites him, not until he draws blood. Vulpes makes a strangled noise and presses his body closer. He can feel the shape of Frank’s smirk against his skin and his arousal between his thighs.

Without hesitation, he grabs Frank’s stiffening erection and delights in the moan that rumbles in his chest. He wishes he could see Frank’s face when he goes on his knees before him, almost in prayer. Frank unbuckles his belt, widening his stance to give Vulpes room.

He pushes his nose against the dark path of coarse wiry hairs, and he salivates at the musky smell. He takes a second to appreciate the veiny curve of Frank’s cock - not large enough to hurt, not small enough to disappoint. Then he spits into his palm and strokes himself as he takes Frank into his mouth, flattening his tongue and relaxing his jaw.

Finally, Frank stops talking. The wet heat of Vulpes’ mouth draws out low groans from him, but mostly he's quiet. The men in the tents toss and turn in their sleep, and the rustling of their tunics and their stiff moleskin blankets send sharp jolts of anxiety down Vulpes’ spine and towards his cock, twitching in his hand. His balls draw up tight against his body and precum collects under Frank’s foreskin, smearing in webs over Vulpes’ fingers.

Pleasure coils hot and sweet inside Vulpes, stronger than the prickle of shame. He's good at this, he knows it, and he enjoys it thoroughly. He's practiced in many stolen nights. When he has the time to clean himself, his men come at his command and surround him, aching and desperate for him to release them. He misses the feeling of fingers in the spit-slick crease of his ass, and he imagines Frank taking part in it, the ritualistic sharing of his body.

Images and sensations flicker through his mind: the tight friction of two men at once inside him, the twist of his nipple between teeth or between a thumb and forefinger, the warm trickle of come down his legs. He thrusts into his fist and whines around Frank’s girth. Drool escapes from the sides of Vulpes’ mouth and runs down to his chin.

The muscles at the base of Frank’s stomach tense up, and he pulls at Vulpes’ hair in warning. Instead of relenting, Vulpes purses his lips around the head of Frank’s cock and sucks the sensitive glans. He touches himself faster, and the sound of it is somehow more obscene than the way Frank goes still and silent when he finishes. Vulpes swallows instinctively without tasting it.

A glistening string of saliva connects Vulpes’ wet mouth to Frank when he pulls off, and it hangs in the air for a moment and then droops against Vulpes’ chest. Vulpes continues to kneel, and he looks up at Frank, trying to discern his expression, hoping he understands what Vulpes needs.

Frank tucks himself away and buckles his belt again. He watches Vulpes’ hand moving over his cock and, without a scathing remark or any words at all, he steps one foot forward between Vulpes’ legs. Vulpes lets out a high-pitched whimper and grinds against the worn leather of his boot. He remembers what Frank said about Zion, about the Burned Man and the blood. He remembers the months it took for him to catch up with Frank, only to find that he and his men were the prey, not the predators. He remembers how Caesar looked at him before he sent him on this mission - eyes hard and black like seeds in rotten fruit, full of scorn - and he comes.

It begins to rain.


End file.
